Page 109 of Ghost of the Ton

He wiped his forehead, but the ache behind his eyes still hammered at his skull.

“No, lass, I have no wish to destroy yer dreams. But now the marriage is consummated, we must—”

“No!” she cried, her eyes widening with fear once more.

Sweet devil’s cock—did the thought of being married to him strike such terror in her heart?

“No, please!” she said. “You want this marriage even less than I. You gave me hope, Hamish—hope that I could leave here with my fortune and pursue my dreams. Do you hate me so much that you wish to destroy that hope?”

“I dinnae hate ye, lass.”

“Then we must proceed as planned,” she said. “Nobody need know what happened here today.”

“But Murdoch—”

“You vowed him to silence. A-and he wasn’t to know that you’d force yourself on me as soon as you threw him out.” She clasped her hands together. “Yes,” she said. “I just need to clean myself, remove all trace of you. The river. I-I’ll go in the river…”

“Ye cannae, lass. Ye’ll freeze to yer death.”

“Better that than remain here.”

He caught his breath at the stab of hurt. Did she hate him that much?

“I’ll proceed with the vaccination plan,” she said, as if to herself. “That will remove me from here for a while, then I can make arrangements to go when I return.”

“But yer fortune, Mia—I’ve yet to raise the full amount.”

“I cannot stay here a moment longer!” she said. “Surely you must see that? We should proceed with the annulment as soon as possible. You must write to your solicitor tonight.”

“But what will ye do?” he said. “If ye decide to marry again, yer next husband will know—”

“I’ll never marry,” she said. “But if I do, I-I’ll tell him I was raped.”

Her words struck him as surely as if she’d slapped him across the face.

“Surely ye cannae—”

“It happens more often than people care to believe,” she said, coldly, “both in wedlock and outside. Of course, in wedlock, the man believes himself entitled to take his wife unwilling, but outside the law there is a higher principle.”

“Which is?” he said, the weight of defeat pressing on him.

“That of right and wrong.”

She spoke so quietly that her voice was almost a whisper, as if the cloak of despair covered her like a shroud. He met her gaze, and though she tilted her head up, as proud as a queen—or a laird’s wife—the sorrow in her eyes broke his heart.

“Then, lass,” he said, “if that’s how ye feel, I’ll leave ye be.”

“Please do,” she said. “I have no wish to set eyes on you again.”

“Mia, I—”

“It’s Miss Lucas to you, Lord MacLennan,” she said. “I trust you’ll respect my wishes, even if you were incapable of respecting my person.”

Defeated, Hamish bowed his head then exited the cottage, taking his leave with a promise that he’d send Rory to repair the door. Then he retreated along the path and stopped in the shadow of the fir trees. After a moment, she emerged from the cottage, and his soul ached at the soft crying—not the tears a woman sheds when she wishes to manipulate her man into giving her what she wants, but the subdued tears of despair when a woman has been betrayed by the man who gave her hope, then took it away.

She stumbled toward the river’s edge and Hamish tensed. If he tried to prevent her, she’d only reject him, but he couldn’t leave her while she might be in danger. So he watched, a silent sentinel, as he’d watched over her at the cottage unobserved so many times before, to ensure that she was left unmolested.

She lowered herself into the water and he heard her sharp cry. Then she proceeded to scrub her legs, rubbing them with a frenzied motion. At length, she rose from the water, her gown clinging to her form, revealing every curve. He caught his breath at the sight of the dark nipples and delectable triangle of curls between her thighs where he’d buried himself only moments before.